


Hubris

by bubblebangbaby



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, how the fuck am i writing slow burn now, i'm so ooc, nothing explicit though, the cupid and psyche au no one asked for or wanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-15 02:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblebangbaby/pseuds/bubblebangbaby
Summary: The world is full of tensions. There are monsters and the heroes who slaughter them. There are gods and their devoted worshipers. Wolves and their prey.And of course, there is man and his hubris.From the Dreamwidth kinkmeme:I'd love to read a gods au where Akira is a god and whoever is his partner decides to worship him. Can be either smutty or gen-y, have offers or sacrifices or totally go down the body worship thing, and I'd love either way.





	1. Fate, Up Against Your Will

**Author's Note:**

> Under a blue moon I saw you  
> So soon you'll take me  
> Up in your arms  
> Too late to beg you or cancel it  
> Though I know it must be the killing time  
> Unwillingly mine
> 
> In starlit nights I saw you  
> So cruelly you kissed me  
> Your lips a magic world  
> Your sky all hung with jewels  
> The killing moon  
> Will come too soon
> 
> Under a blue moon I saw you  
> So soon you'll take me  
> Up in your arms  
> Too late to beg you or cancel it  
> Though I know it must be the killing time  
> Unwillingly mine
> 
> Fate  
> Up against your will  
> Through the thick and thin  
> He will wait until  
> You give yourself to him  
> [the killing moon, echo and the bunnymen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWz0JC7afNQ)

He is five when he is given over to the temple’s atelier. An offering to Apollo, they say; his budding talent is too great for the mortal sphere. His talent. Of course. Not the fact that his mother had just died and there was no one left to care for him. Looking back, he supposes this was a kindness. The temple was always hard and spare, but better by far than the brothels.

He is ten when the first patron comes to request him by name. Perhaps if the had been older, he would have understood the glint of greed in the head priest’s eye as he met with the man. Perhaps he would have realized why his new patron’s gaze lingered on him until he began to squirm beneath it. But he only understood the possibility of being favored. He thought only of the more comfortable chambers and ample food that he envied the older acolytes for.

Still, he is lucky. The head priest is cruel and greedy, but he is shrewd. Only the acolytes whose talent is nothing more than pedestrian are given over to such patrons like bones to the dogs. Yusuke, he protects with jealous greed. If that means that the most beautiful, most glowing and detailed of the boy’s paintings are called the work of the priest himself, well, it’s perhaps a fair trade.

He is fifteen when one of the temple’s most generous benefactors quietly takes him aside during a feast day.

“Yusuke...” she says softly, a voice only for him, not carrying over the din of drunken chatter in the main hall. She takes both of Yusuke’s hands in her own. “Tell me, child. Nearly everything beautiful in this temple is drawn by your hand, isn’t it?”

It makes him profoundly uneasy. The temple art is sacred. It is drawn by the hand of Apollo, not a mere child. He tells the young noblewoman such. Her chuckle tinkles in the air, sweet but rueful.

“Such a diplomatic answer. You’re a remarkable boy.” Her fingertips caress Yusuke’s knuckles, then his forehead. “Your hands are blessed by Apollo, and your face by Venus. You should be an artist under your own merit, instead of a mere acolyte, with your greatest works stolen from you to glorify a greedy old priest.” Yusuke says nothing. Alarm is crawling beneath his skin like quick-spreading hoarfrost on a dark morning. “You do not have to give me an answer. But if someday you find that you would like to take commissions on your own terms, send me a message. I would like to see work that is wholly yours, not cast off to the mercy of the gods.”

He still cannot speak. Can’t even blink. He nods slowly, and the woman releases her gentle hold on his hands with a smile. She pats his cheek with fond affection in her eyes, and melts back into the crowd. Yusuke will turn this moment over in his mind and worry at it like an aching tooth for the rest of his life.

He is seventeen when his pride shatters. Six months, he’s worked on finishing this vast series of paintings to a grueling, exacting standard. Three days, he’s gone without sleeping, without eating, to have this commission completed in time.

Madarame’s commission.

He was never even meant to touch these, and instead he’s done nearly all the work himself, poured his heart’s blood into them. As though to insult him further, it’s not even a sacred subject. A wealthy senator wanted the best hands available to create beautiful decorations for his newest estate. Most of the figures are based on his lovers. He’s promised a substantial donation to the temple, but a much larger one to Madarame alone.

When they are as complete as he can possibly manage, glowing in their delicate curves and perfectly painted pouts, Madarame drags him away from the site and takes over the last details. Adds a few brush strokes to the silken-smooth wood panels as the senator’s caravan comes into view. On the ride back to the temple, the only kind thing the old priest has to say about Yusuke’s hard work is that it is “adequate enough.”

It’s his dearest friend in the atelier who finally convinces him. The younger girl, a kindred spirit who cloistered herself in the temple after the death of her mother, has become like a sister to him. Late that night when he finally arrives home, she’s there in his chambers, waiting with a spread of purloined food and medicine and wine. Waiting to bluntly call out his foolishness even as she hands over creature comforts. She’s right. She’s right, and it’s taken Yusuke far too long to accept it. He’s delirious from lack of sleep, but she forces a small meal and a lot of liquids down him before he passes out.

When he wakes a day and a half later, she’s still there. He’s been dreaming things he can’t remember now, but one thought is heavy in his mind. “You were right,” he croaks.

She snorts and hands him a cup of watered wine. “I’m always right.”

He gulps it down gratefully. “I’ll do it,” he says desperately, “I’ll take Okumura’s commission.”

She pats his head, awkward but kind. “I told you, Inari. You deserve it.”

“I know. I’m a fool.” She swats him across the shoulder.

“No, idiot! You deserve to have your work recognized as your own. Your patrons recognize it, why the hell can’t you?” She’s tiny but fierce. Her look of anger reminds Yusuke of a protective mother shrew. He can’t help but smile a little.

“Ok… ok, fine, Futaba. I’ll send a message to her in the morning.” She snorts again, grins like an eager mink.

“Don’t bother. I sent her one yesterday.”

“What--”

“Shut up, I knew this is what you’d want. So it’s set. Expect a response in the next couple days. In the meantime, you probably want to take a bath.”

“I—I can...” his head is spinning at the possibilities. This is moving far faster than he expected. Futaba grabs both his wrists and yanks with all her diminutive strength.

“C’moooon. Get up!” He acquiesces to her demands without another word. It suddenly feels like the first day of his life. The feeling is more accurate than he would have ever thought at the time. He follows her into the baths, still shaking with exhaustion, but his mind spinning with wild possibilities.

* * *

_Far and away, far from the temple and the kingdom and all the minor mortal drama therein, wheels are turning. From far above, in Olympus, Apollo watches and begins to grow sullen. The temple on the hill is his by right. The priest and his acolytes are pledged to him. The art of its beautiful atelier is created for the glory of him, and him alone._

_Except when it isn’t._

_He feels the tipping point when that boy’s blasphemous thoughts become a final decision, when ideas turn to action. When the betrayal of his worshiper is truly undeniable. Anger begins to bubble behind his eyes. This mortal child is on thin ice._

 

* * *

He is nineteen when the wheels of his fate lock onto their inexorable path and begin to turn.

Since that faithful decision, the single commission became a trickle, then a flood. he has proper patrons now, who support him where the temple does not. He shares with the other acolytes where he can, paying off debts and passing out food and supplies in secret. More than a few of the nobles who come to him express an interest beyond the artistic. A select few, he accepts as lovers, but most he rebukes. He’s seen more than enough of the extravagances of greedy men and selfish women without diving into that sea himself.

The high priest is dying. He’s rarely seen outside his chambers now, and the rituals and feasts are led by the young priestesses instead. It’s not spoken of, but everyone is aware—Yusuke has been the true artist of the temple for years. No one even pretends to pay Madarame lip service as the voice of Apollo any more. There are rumors, whispers that he tries hard not to hear, but that ease their way into his heart regardless. _Madarame’s hubris was too great—the gods have abandoned him… Apollo may have fled the temple, but th_ _at_ _young priest could rival the god himself in brilliance…_ _They say h_ _e created the_ _frescoes_ _that line the walls,_ _planned and painted every inch_ _…_ _You should see the portraits of_ _the Tora_ _family, they look more alive than those bloodless nobles ever have_ _in real life_ _…_ _Have you_ _seen the boy himself_ _, though? Venus must be tearing her hair in jealousy…_

He may have grown up in the heart of the temple, but Yusuke puts little faith in Apollo, or in any of the gods. He’s seen behind the curtain of religion, and he doesn’t care for it. Still, the shamelessness of the mutterings about him set him ill at ease. So when a pleasant-faced young man strides directly up to him as he works in the temple and introduces himself without so much as acknowledging the altars—much less offering a prayer—his first instinct is to throw him out.

He’s charming, though, and convincing. Goro, an only son from a city an island away, was made suddenly, tragically wealthy through the early death of his father and several other relatives in an horrific accident. He’s grieving, he says, bitter acid grief. He came to Yusuke to commission a mural to line the walls of his great hall: a panoply of the underworld, and of Orpheus’ tragedies in it.He asks Yusuke to also consider to taking him on as his main patron, knowing that the head priest would soon be dead, knowing that perhaps he too might know the taste of grief. Knowing that this lovely young artist whose fame had spread as far as Apollo’s own name, should have a chance at a life unbound by temple duties. Yusuke’s heart twists in sympathy. And maybe… a little hope as well.

Goro gives him three days to consider it before he must return, with or without him. Three days.

By the next day, he’s made his decision.

* * *

“Are you gonna tell the old bastard where you’re going?” Futaba’s in his doorway, smirking wickedly at her own impudence as she watches him pack up his scant belongings. He sighs.

“No. I see no reason to divulge such detail. I will tell him that I am leaving, though.” She crouches beside him, suddenly solemn.

“It might be the last time you see him.”

“...I know.” The seed of melancholy that had taken root in him as he began preparing to leave is threatening to twine through his chest and wrap his heart in its tendrils. He isn’t sure what he can even say to the old priest, other than goodbye. Madarame had saved an orphaned child from a short, miserable life, given him the tools and the blessings to let his talent blossom instead of withering on the vine. But the costs… Gods, the costs. Long nights of exhaustion and hunger and desperate loneliness. The carefully-sown discord among all the acolytes that left him full of petty viciousness and misery before he realized what was truly happening and clawed his way out of the mire of it. The jagged scar on his forehead that he still keeps carefully hidden behind his hair.

He’s finally so close to being free. He’s terrified of being free.

“What about you, though,” he asks, smoothing the girl’s hair sadly, “And Makoto, and the others? How will you fare once we’re both gone?” She waves him away.

“Stop worrying, Inari. Makoto’s ready to take over the second the old man drops. We’ve made nice with the better patrons and they’re backing her. We’ll be fine. Better than fine. So worry about yourself for once, you horse’s ass.” He laughs. He’s going to miss her insults. He’s going to miss her.

In the end, when he comes in to say his goodbyes, his fretting is all for naught. Madarame barely recognizes him, too ill to associate the brittle young man before him with the eager child he expects to see. He says his goodbyes and walks away, the aching sadness in his heart solidifying into resolve. There’s nothing left for him here.

When he meets Goro the next morning, he’s out of room for regrets.


	2. Too Late To Beg You or Cancel It

The last thing he’d expected for the first day of his new life was to spend it curled in a dark corner of his new patron’s ship, too sick to move. Over the past few days, he’d been fueled by daydreams of the ocean, excited to see the vast swaying plains of it from a new perspective and watch the shore retreating like the tide; perhaps he’d even catch a glimpse of the strange and beautiful creatures that dwell in its depths. And he did lean over the rail of the boat and watch the retreating land with fascination and wonder, right up until the first true ocean wave lifted the small craft up and cast it down, taking Yusuke’s stomach, and its contents, with it. Such an undignified and inauspcious beginning. If he were to fling himself over the side, he wonders, would the sea take mercy on him and grant him a quick death, or would he become Poseidon's plaything for a long and miserable while?

“Yusuke. Are you awake?” Goro’s voice pulls him out of his idle death wish.

“Regrettably, yes.” He sounds as pathetic as he feels. Nausea has stripped him of manners, and he can’t even bring himself to care. Yusuke can hear the other man move closer and crouch next to him. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“I’ll leave this here with you, then. It’s some concoction the sailors swear will help. And if it doesn’t, we’ll be landing in the morning.”

“I… ah, thank you…” He tries to sit up, but his stomach disagrees with the notion violently, and he curls back in on himself instead with a groan. Goro chuckles softly and presses the little flask into his hand so he doesn’t have to move again.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be much longer.” Yusuke nods slightly and clutches the flask. He feels a hand on his forehead before Goro stands to leave, and the touch sends a particularly violent wave of nausea through him. He shifts just enough to gulp down the bitter, peppery liquid, and tries desperately to get to sleep. When he finally does, it’s restless and filled with ugly dreams.

* * *

He’s not sure, really, what he expected of the island estate before arriving. Perhaps a bustling town like the one surrounding the temple, or a quiet, quaint villa surrounded by picturesque farmland. What he finds is a sprawling complex that rambles along the edge of a steep cliff, a spare, elegant place with a sweeping view of sea and sky. It’s breathtaking.

It’s lonely.

The servants are numerous and polite and happy to provide him with anything he might need for his work at a moment’s notice; yet they barely engage with him beyond that. He hears them singing in the evenings, love songs and work songs and hymns of exquisite beauty and precise harmony that seem to burrow into his heart and twist. When he slips into the courtyard to hear them better, they fall silent and scatter.

The young lord is often nearby and always superficially pleasant, but Yusuke finds himself increasingly uncomfortable in his presence. There’s something in those sweet brown eyes, something roiling and intense, that stands in opposition to his meek demeanor. Consciously or not, Yusuke begins to avoid him as much as he can manage.

He throws himself headlong into his work, his art, the one, singular thing that has only ever brought him pure comfort without the sting of betrayal. He spends long days marking out panels and figures, creating sketch after sketch to plan every detail and gesture. At night, he reads, devouring everything he can find of story and scripture and hymn, deeply grateful for the distraction of the nobleman’s library. The study and the work do little to lift the lonely air of the place, though. Little by little, he sinks deeper into the darkness of the scenes he paints.

Late into the night, he wakes often to the sounds of the servants singing dark songs of black rivers and fields of grey asphodel. In his dreams, the faces of the dead stare in silent desperation. His mother, her face a blur of hazy memories. One of the acolytes he played with as a child, who hung himself in his own room when they were both sixteen. Madarame himself.

He sleeps little, as the months wear on, eats even less. Grief hangs heavy on his shoulders, day after day, as though it’s part of the air in this place, part of the walls.

Freedom has a price, it seems. If this even is freedom.

He keeps painting.

One evening, Goro appears in the hall as he works, seems to just manifest directly beside him without a sound. Was he always so _silent_? He’s smiling that sweet, guileless smile that leaves his eyes shuttered and empty and leaves Yusuke wary, unnerved.

“Ah, Yusuke! I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks. Will you have dinner with me?” Is it so late already? He blinks at the light streaming in, low and saffron-hued. It’s sunset now, not late morning as it was when he last took note of the day. He seems to be losing time lately. His stomach twists, and he realizes absently that he’s forgotten to eat again.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Evening is falling quickly, the light fading from gold to red to purple as Yusuke follows the nobleman through the halls.

The servants are not singing.

It’s a lovely banquet the noble has spread out for them, but Yusuke finds himself quite unable to focus on it. He catches Goro staring at him a little too long, a little too often, and the look in his eyes is eerily cunning.

“Tell me, Yusuke, do you still pray?” Yusuke looks up from his food, blinking in confusion. What an odd thing to ask so suddenly, as though his patron hadn’t been the one to draw him away from the temple in the first place. Does he still pray? Did he ever, really? The uneasiness slithering inside him seems to grow.

“All the works of my hand are dedicated to the glory of Apollo.” It’s a stock answer, a safe answer. Goro laughs at him.

“So each day’s work, then, you place in the hands of the gods? How pious.” He’s smirking, sarcastic. Yusuke looks away.

“Of course not. But it was pronounced so when I was a child, so I suppose it must still be true.” The young lord’s eyes bore into him, seeming to glow an inhuman crimson in the ruddy lamplight.

“And if you could choose to discard such a dedication? Have your works be yours alone, or only for the pleasure of those you gift them to?” Yusuke laughs bitterly.

“Would it matter if I did? I’ve seen no blessings from Apollo for my piety. I don’t think he would care either way.” Goro doesn’t answer.

The tension is broken when a servant bustles in, refilling glasses and setting out a tray of pretty pastries. She’s clearly trying to slip by unnoticed, but she brushes close to Yusuke as she pours more wine, so close he can feel the warmth of her skin and her long, dark hair brushing against his shoulder. Without thinking, he reaches up to smooth it behind her ear and out of the way of the table, making her start and blush furiously. He opens his mouth to apologize, but when he catches her eye, he sees her full lip caught between her teeth fetchingly, sees awe and hunger in her gaze. His face is burning now too. She murmurs an apology and moves away quickly, and Yusuke is mesmerized by her bare, sun-browned shoulders and the sway of her hips as she leaves. There’s a soft chuckle from the head of the table.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Ah—indeed…”

“I’ll send her to your chambers tonight, if you’d like.” Goro’s tone is utterly nonchalant, and there’s that saccharine smile on his face again. Yusuke feels a trickle of cold alarm roll down his spine. She had seemed taken with him, certainly, but to have her ordered to his room by a man she cannot refuse? Abhorrent.

“No… no, thank you.” Goro’s smile doesn’t waver. His eyes are cold.

“Suit yourself. Though it seems a shame to reject such a lovely gift of Venus…”

“Venus has nothing to do with it,” Yusuke snaps. “She’s not an offering to be bled on the altar.” Goro’s not smiling any more.

“I see.” Yusuke sighs and shakes his head.

“My apologies. I…” He closes his eyes, remembering the commission he had taken at seventeen to paint the innermost chambers of the temple of Venus, and the angry, desperate faces of the “priestesses” he met there. He remembers he two girls who had sought him out not long after, begging his help to escape a cruel patron who had used wealth and fame to buy his way beyond censure. Remembers, too, their tragic end and the terrible punishment that had rained down on him for trying. They had judged him correctly as a kindred spirit, but tragically misjudged his freedom to act. He sees their faces only in his nightmares now. He learned well, then, that if the goddess truly exists, her nature is cruel and her gifts are no blessing at all. “I have seen a side of her worship that others perhaps have not.”

“And you would reject her blessings for that?”

“Are they blessings, really?” He picks at his food a bit, but it’s no longer appealing. Even the pastries taste bitter as wormwood. Goro makes a thoughtful sound, but says nothing.

There are no hymns floating on the night air as he returns to his room that evening. The pretty serving girl does not come to him. When he sleeps, it’s dreamless as death.

* * *

_Apollo feels it the moment the metaphorical ice at the boy’s feet shatters. What a shameless, blasphemous, infuriating mortal, happy to spit in the face of his gifts, and Venus’ too. He pays a visit to his half-sister, cloaked in indigence and dripping with spite._

_“Are you intruding on me for a reason?” She raises a silver brow at his sudden appearance, gazes laconically down at him from her dais. He grins up at her, and there’s a crazed tilt to it._

_“That mortal brat. Surely you’re aware of him? He holds no love for you either, you know.”_

_“So I saw.” She swirls her wine in its crystal goblet and stares into it, considering. For a moment, the ruby glint of it reflects her garnet eyes, and they glow balefully. “I’ve seen more than that, too. When he was barely more than a boy, he turned the head of a man on his way to my temple. Most of his patrons worship his beauty so eagerly they seem to have forgotten my name. Even those who aren’t patrons travel long to see him and spend more time in admiration of him and his work than in rightful worship of the gods.” Her eyes grow colder, her pretty mouth twisting in rage. “And then... he tried to spirit two of my priestesses away from my temple under the noses of the high priests._

_“So yes, brother. I am very aware of him.” She flicks a long strand of her moonlight-pale hair over her shoulder and takes a slow sip of her wine._

_“Well then. Will you join me?” He’s still grinning. Venus makes her way down from her throne, slow and graceful. She pats her half-brother’s cheek fondly and pushes a bit of his tawny hair out of his eyes._

_“_ _Be patient. Let him finish his task. By the time he’s done, his hubris will be undeniable even to himself. After all, isn’t it better for him to live pierced by the knowledge of what exactly he’s done to deserve his suffering?” Apollo leans into her touch. The wisdom of her words eases his impatience. It will be worth the wait._


	3. Under a Blue Moon I Saw You

A dark shape, like a scrap of the night sky, flits down into the courtyard on silent owl’s wings. The full moon’s lantern shines bright, illuminating the barren space. It’s too quiet here. There’s no wind. The air smells of dry rot and dust. He heads straight to the doors of the great hall that stand open on the other side of the bare field, feeling strangely exposed in the open space. Something is wrong here.

It’s just as empty in the great hall, but there’s less feeling of dread, at least. Even with the moonlight streaming in through the high windows and open door, it’s so dark. He conjures a light and takes in a sharp breath when it reveals the rich tapestry of fresh painting all around him, on every wall. He suddenly feels as though he’s barged into an empty room, only to find a crowd of people all looking in his direction. Every inch of the place is draped in color and form. Carefully, gently, the god of passion moves along the walls, tracing his fingertips lightly over every exquisitely-rendered figure, every elegant and horrifying piece of the tableau. He recognizes this story, these figures.

Orpheus.

Cupid can practically hear his music in every delicate expression, every perfectly-balanced detail, from love to joy to horror, from the jagged frenzy of death, to the vast and bloodless plains of the underworld. He is shaken. His own heart beats in sync with this passion etched in stone. Apollo was right to burn with envy as he does. This mural is a holy hymn in stone and paint.

The young god makes his way into the heart of the villa, silent feet hardly touching the ground. He must see and judge this young man for himself before condemning him to the pit of horrors his mother demands. Cupid knows better than anyone that love is no blessing. One by one, the rooms in the inner chambers come up empty. Not just empty, abandoned—as though no living person had walked these halls in decades. There’s a chill in the air that settles in his chest, sharp as an arrowhead. Whatever glamour Apollo must have laid upon this place while the artist was working is long gone.

He might have missed it if a bright stream of moonlight hadn’t been pouring in through a missing section of roof. Tracks in the dust of the hallway lead to one door that sits neatly closed rather than hanging broken on half-dissolved hinges. He can feel his hands shaking and wings fluttering with nervous energy as he pushes the door open.

He knew then, but would never admit, what his decision would be.

His heart had made its choice as soon as he laid eyes on the eloquent, searing pastiche of the downfall of Orpheus.

When the door swung open and the moonlight fell on the sweet, exhausted face of the young artist curled there asleep, the decision was set in stone.

Cupid lays down his bow.

* * *

When Yusuke wakes, he sees golden-red light streaming in through the window. His head feels strange. Had he slept all the way through to sunset? He scrubs his hands across his face and through his hair, shaking the sleep-fog from his mind.

Something is off. He sits up, looks around him.

Something is _wrong._

This isn’t the same room he fell asleep in, for one. He ought to be in a sparse, dim little chamber, decorated only by his own charcoal sketches scratched onto the walls. Instead there’s sunlight glittering so bright he can barely open his eyes. Is he outside…? It’s a struggle to adjust to the light, and when he does, it’s an even greater struggle to parse what he’s seeing. This is like nothing he’s ever seen. The walls are glowing? No, the sun that shines in through the wide windows is glittering off them, off of carved shapes all gilded and jeweled.

He shifts and struggles to move, to get up and take a closer look at his surroundings. The bed is so very soft, it seems to pull him back down every time he pulls himself up. But he’s determined. The first jolt of fear is quickly turning to fascination, an eagerness to study everything around him. The walls are lined with a relief of intricately carved goddesses and monsters, their details gilded and inlaid with precious and beautiful stones of every hue, so subtly and cunningly set into the sculptures that they seem to come alive. The floor is a fanciful mosaic depicting a bacchanal so creatively lewd in its detail, he can feel his cheeks burn and his body start to stir just from looking it over.

A warm wind, heavy with the scent of wild roses, breezes in and catches at his hair, his clothes. He only then realizes with a start that the silk robe he’s wearing now is a far cry from the pigment-stained work tunic he fell asleep in. He plucks at the sleeves and watches how the rich cobalt fabric moves and shimmers in the sunlight, and carefully sets aside a nagging worry about who, exactly, might have dressed him so.

Is this Olympus, then? Has he passed a test from the gods that he never knew was being administered? If so, it seems eerily, unexpectedly silent. He slips out of the bedroom in search of answers.

Wherever this estate, this exquisite palace, may be, it is certainly fit for the gods. He slips through the halls as silently as he can, as though something might leap from the shadows if he shifts the blanket of silence. Or perhaps the walls themselves may come alive to censure him. The only signs of life in this place are the astounding murals and carvings and mosaics lining every open space of the walls, just as he’d seen in the room in which he’d awakened—nymphs and satyrs painted in a thousand different ways, delicately-carved stone muses and heroes peering out from alcoves, pillars and archways of rich wood and glittering rare stone standing vigilantly in their places of support. It’s breathtaking. It’s overwhelming. It must have taken an army of artisans, all far more skilled than any he’s ever known, to do all this. How?

Around one corner, he finds a kitchen and larder, fully stocked with everything he can imagine. He takes note of it all, but doesn’t touch, certainly doesn’t eat anything. Beautiful as this place is, the thought of being bound to it makes him shudder. At the end of a long corridor, he finds a breathtaking bath large enough for a town, glittering clean and bright in gold-threaded marble.

In appearance, at least, there is everything he could ever want here, luxury such as he’s seen only rarely in his life.

But there are no people.

Every inch of the place is a work of rare and exquisite beauty, and there’s not a single living creature here to appreciate it. The longer Yusuke ghosts through empty halls and abandoned rooms, the more uneasy he grows. This is surely no Olympus.

When finally he stumbles upon an imposing set of dark doors dominating an archway that he could _swear_ was empty the first three times he passed it, a flutter of panic starts to beat against his breast. He flings the doors open, desperate to find some kind of answer behind them, or at least a way out of here. Instead, he finds a banquet. On a shaded, open balcony, spacious as any noble’s hall, there’s a low table loaded down with all manner of food and wine, surrounded by plush cushions that beckon him to lie back and rest. The same warm breeze that greeted him in the first room slinks through here as well, catching at his hair as it passes, surrounding him with the scent of roast fowl, fresh bread, garlic and citrus and spices. He’s suddenly, painfully aware that he hasn’t eaten yet today. Or yesterday, for that matter.

From somewhere behind him, Yusuke hears the sound of wings.

“Welcome. Is the house to your liking?” A voice, the first he’s heard since he’s arrived, soft and sweet and so close behind him that he stumbles back with a start and an undignified yelp, falling onto a cushion. He stares at the doorway from where he’s fallen. There’s no one there. The boy was so close he could practically feel him at his back, and yet no one is there. The voice floats out again, emerging from empty space. “Oh no, please don’t be scared! You don’t have anything to worry about here, I swear.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks around warily. This disembodied voice is not at all reassuring.

“Wha—who are you?” Yusuke feels that same invisible presence nearer, can practically feel the warmth of a body as it passes by. The cushion nearest him dips slightly.

“Ah, sorry! I’m one of the servants here, you can call me Mishima.” The voice is still sweet, a little unsure. He sounds young, like a boy fast approaching manhood.

“Why… can’t I see you…?”

“You can’t see me? Oh! Oh right, you’re mortal. Mortals can’t see us.” Stranger and stranger, this place is…

“Can you at least tell me why I am here?”

The voice is silent for a long moment.

“Oh…” the boy breathes out, “you… I-I’m sorry. Our master brought you here to, well, keep you safe.” He sounds anxious, apologetic. Yusuke wonders if he’s wringing invisible hands.

“Safe?” he asks the boy warily, “Safe from what?”

“Well, you’ve, um… had the gods take notice of you. And not in a good way.” He’s drawn the anger of the gods? How….?

_“Truly you should cast out Apollo himself and take his place leading the muses.”_

_“Oh, would that I could...”_

Ice claws its way through his veins. He’s no longer hungry.

“I see.” His head spins.

“But you’re safe here! And there should be everything here you need to be comfortable. All you have to do is call for me and I’ll bring anything you’re missing. Master’s orders!” He laughs nervously. It sounds like he’s trying to reassure himself more than his guest.

“But who is your master…?” Mishima laughs again, and it’s much less nervous.

“You’ll meet him tonight, he’ll come to you. He really likes you, you know.” There’s a delighted, conspiratorial tone in his voice now.Yusuke feels a phantom hand grab at his sleeve. “You don’t need to worry about anything, I can promise you. I’ll let you eat, but just call my name if you need something!” The invisible boy retreats, that odd fluttering sound rising with him as he does, and Yusuke feels more alone than ever. Invisible servants. Empty halls lined with empty eyes that watch him has he passes. Food he doesn’t have the nerve to eat. If all this is meant to have been designed for his comfort, the master of this house clearly does not know him well. He hugs his knees to his chest and sits in the banquet hall, unmoving in his quiet distress, until the red light of sunset runs its warm fingertips across his face.

* * *

_“Sister. Where is your son?” The venom in Apollo’s voice is barely restrained as he stalks into Venus’ chambers._

_“If I knew, I would tell you,” she says, icy sharp._

_“Either he’s been bested by this impudent mortal, or he’s run away with him. I… dislike both of these possibilities.”_

_“Believe me, I do too.” Venus grips her wineglass so hard her fingertips grow bloodless. “You have my permission to seek him out and bring him here.” Apollo smiles like the slash of a sword._

_“I shall.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally... they meet! Sorry for the late chapter, been out of commission this week :|


	4. So Soon, You'll Take Me

Yusuke sits quietly in the bed he first woke up in, watching the last purple strains of evening light disappear outside the windows. Each time he tries to ponder his circumstances, his mind derails the thought desperately. He hasn’t felt this lost and alone since his first few nights at the temple as a terrified, orphaned child. He clings, though, to the memory ofMishima’seager, guileless voice. _You don’t need to worry about anything. He really likes you, you know._ If that’s so true, perhaps this master of his will listen when he arrives, and allow him to leave, Apollo be damned. A deep dread curdles in him as he lies back and waits to learn the answer.

_You’ll meet him tonight. He’ll come to you._ He had waited in the banquet hall as long as he could bear, hardly picking at the food. Even now, he can’t imagine eating in this state. Mishima’s master never came in. Nor did he appear in the bedchamber when Yusuke finally retired to it. He lies back and stares at the constellation-spangled ceiling, unmoving, afraid to try to sleep. It seems clear that the master of this place may come to him here, late into the night. He wishes he didn’t know what that could mean for him.

Such horrors, in a place so beautiful. What an unholy thing. No wonder the gods cannot reach him here.

Above him, the gilded stars seem to glow softly with reflected moonlight.

He jerks awake to the touch of fingertips against his face. When did he fall asleep? The room is unnaturally dark, so pitch black he can’t even see his own hands, much less the hand touching him. He can feel the weight of a figure next to him, as though someone were sitting on the edge of the bed, a respectful distance away.

“Ah, you’re awake. Please don’t be frightened.” A man’s voice, low and gentle, punctuated by the same strange rustling that had accompanied the servant. Is _this_ Mishisma’s master, then? Yusuke snatches away the hand on his face and is surprised to find no resistance to his impudence. _He really likes you, you know…_

“Yes, I’m awake. Are you the one who brought me here?” He’s trying to sound commanding, but a tremble in his voice betrays him.

“Yes. Is it to your liking?” The same tone, soft and gentle and not at all angry.

“Yes, I— _No_. I’d like to know why I’m here and whether I can leave.” The man withdraws his hand, and there’s more of that anxious rustling, like the rows of caged doves he remembers from the marketplace, waiting restlessly to be the next sacrifice to the gods.

“You can leave whenever you like. I’d never keep you prisoner. But away from here, I can’t protect you.” Is this some sort of trick?

“From the wrath of the gods?” There’s a hint of sarcasm creeping in to Yusuke’s voice despite himself. Is this creature truly serious? How is a threat of divine persecution upon leaving any different from chains and barred windows?

“Yes.”

Silence stretches between them for a long moment.

“I would tell you more if I could. But the reach of Apollo and Venus is long.” Yusuke sits up, moves to face the man as best he can without being able to see him. Something bold in him rears its head.

“Why do you care?”

“Why do—?” He seems taken aback by the question. Yusuke presses further. He thinks he knows the answer, but he must hear it outright.

“Yes. Why do you care what happens to a mortal like me?” He’s silent for another long moment, and Yusuke’s heart starts to sink. Is he going to answer at all?

“Your passion,” he says, finally, “for your work. It’s something rare. I couldn’t bear to see it lost.”

The answer shakes him to the core, sets his heart pounding in something like panic, something like hope. Not the answer he’d expected. Not at all. Had this being, this man, been there as he painted the great hall? Or earlier, in the days of the temple? Yet his voice is unfamiliar...

“…Who are you?” Yusuke whispers. “Do I know you?”

There’s that rustling sound again, and he can feel the figure shift next to him, as though starting to move closer but stopping. Yusuke can feel his heart slamming against his chest, like it’s shaking his entire body with every beat.

“No, you—you don’t know me. I’m, ah—a friend. And… more, if you would so choose.” The man sounds almost uncertain, almost hopeful, and it starts to calm Yusuke’s frantic pulse. _He really likes you, you know…_

“Then… what is your name?”

“Ah. You may call me Ren.” Ren, then. It’s appealing, somehow, that such a mysterious being wishes to be called by such a sweet and simple name.

“Can I see you?” Yusuke asks. The dread in his gut is beginning to loosen, though, starting to give way to curiosity. He can leave any time, or so this phantom says. And he has made no move to harm him. Soft fingertips brush across his his hand, hesitantly. Yusuke turns his palm up and the fingers thread through his, squeeze his hand gently. He feels a little warmth glow within him at the gesture. His heart slowly stops rattling the bars of its cage so wildly.

“No… This is my one condition. You may stay here with me as long as you would like. Everything you could ever want will be simply a wish away. But you cannot see me.” Yusuke’s gut twists inside him.

“And if I choose to return…?”

“I would not stop you. But… I hope you would stay.” There’s a tremor in that voice,anxiety creeping back into it.

Yusuke considers this in silence. The palace is truly beautiful, if lonely. This man, whoever he is—whatever he is, really, for he is clearly not human—he seems kind. His voice is young and sweet, his hands strong but gentle. But this is all so strange, like a story of the gods come to life. It feels like someone’s upended and shaken him like an empty jar, set him back down turned the opposite way from where he’d started. To stay here, without ever seeing another person’s face? And to have this companion whom he can touch, but never see? To never know if he is plain or beautiful, alien or human? To never know the face, the eyes, the smile, to put into a portrait?

Though… is the temple truly preferable? Performing rites for a god he holds no love for, upholding the legacy of a dying man who in all his life, has only used him, has sucked away his youth and talent for his own glory. Could he instead abandon this place and the temple both, to be at the mercy of patrons no less selfish than Madarame? And this is disregarding the warnings of the wrath of the gods.This person next to him, this god or nymph or man or monster, could he be a kind of salvation from all of it?

Ren squeezes his hand suddenly, breaking him from his introspection.

“Stay for a time. Before you decide. Humor me for a fortnight before you return.”

Yusuke lets out a long, slow breath and nods. A fortnight. Yes, he can wait that long. Perhaps he will tire of this empty palace quickly, but even then, he can endure for a short while.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Yes, I can stay for that long.” There’s a little, sharp sound of breath beside him; and Ren pulls his hand up to kiss it, light and soft, before releasing it. The slight contact leaves him frozen, heart starting its frantic dance in his chest again.

“Thank you… Yusuke…” The bed shifts beside him as the man stands to leave. Yusuke starts to reach for him but thinks better of it.

“Wait. Will you return here? Or will you haunt these halls as your servants do?”

“I’ll return to you. Every evening, when twilight turns to darkness. I’ll leave if you ask me to. And… I’ll stay if you ask, as well. Until dawn.” Yusuke shivers. The implication is clear, but the way Ren circles it so carefully is… charming. Reassuring, even. Yes, he can test this arrangement.

“Very well…” Yusuke says softly, and hears Ren let out a soft, relieved sound in response.

“Until tomorrow, then… Goodnight.”

“Goodnight...” Quiet footsteps cross the room and the door creaks shut. He’s alone in the bedchamber once again. He knows he should be more distressed by this encounter, but for now, he feels… content. If this is some strange version of courtship, he could do worse.

Despite himself, Yusuke falls back asleep quickly. His dreams are sweet and filled with warm lips and the sound of beating wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we depart from the original kinkmeme fill, because I felt like this part was too rushed. Time to live up to that slow burn tag, eh? :3

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I don't know what I'm doing either. Hit me up on [tumblr](bubblebangbaby.tumblr.com) for corrections, rants, and/or ominous prophecies. If you're going to challenge me to a contest and then turn me into a monster when I win, you have to tell me up front or it's entrapment.


End file.
